


letter from the trenches (the absent hearts remix)

by silkstocking



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-05 09:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18363257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silkstocking/pseuds/silkstocking
Summary: Someone has to win. Someone has to lose.





	letter from the trenches (the absent hearts remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [splatticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splatticus/gifts).
  * Inspired by [a man at war writes home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15216521) by [splatticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/splatticus/pseuds/splatticus). 



NHL hockey is a zero-sum game.

Sure, there's the potential for overtime, to get a loser point, but at the end of a game, there's a binary outcome. Someone has to win, someone has to lose. David thinks about that as the Leafs file quickly off the ice, heads down, a blur of blue and white glimpsed over Bergy’s shoulder in the mass of sweaty, yelling bodies that comprises the Boston Bruins' post-win scrum.

He thinks about it as he watches his phone light up with Willy’s name and his smiling face, and he thinks about it in the seconds his finger hovers over the screen before he answers.

He’s never not answered a call from Willy.

The silence rings for a long moment, broken only by the rough crackle of Willy’s breathing.

“Hey,” David says eventually. He sets the phone on the counter, switching it to speaker before moving around the kitchen, filling the tea-kettle with water, continuing his post-game rituals.

“Hey,” Willy says. There’s bite in that one syllable, and a whole dictionary of words they’re not saying.

David grabs a lemon half from the refrigerator and sets it on a cutting board. “Where are you? Airport?”

“The hotel,” Willy says. “We’re not flying out until tomorrow.”

Everything David might say about the game feels like a mine buried in the loose earth of the conversation, primed for him to blunder into. He cuts a slice off of the lemon, takes a breath, and says, “Come over. I’m making tea.”

Willy’s quiet again; there’s a rustling through the speaker, the sound of a door opening and closing, water splashing. “Okay,” he says finally. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

Forty-five minutes later, Willy breezes past David and into the kitchen, throwing himself onto a stool in true dramatic Willy fashion.

David only doesn’t roll his eyes because he sees the cracks showing in Willy’s too-cool façade, his crumpled clothes, his messy hair. “Let me boil the water again,” he says instead, busying himself with taking a fresh cup down from the cabinet. “You want tea?”

“I hate tea,” Willy says, but he steals David’s own cup and takes a sip, curling his long fingers around the ceramic. “Coffee is a real drink.”

“Too late for coffee,” David says firmly. He retrieves his cup from Willy, his fingers brushing over Willy’s as he does so. Willy snatches his hand back.  

There’s a lot they could say, but neither of them is saying it. _You played well today_. _I hate your fucking teammates. I’m sorry you lost, but I’m not sorry we won._

“When we were kids,” Willy starts softly, his eyes focused on a corner of David’s granite countertop. “When we were kids, did you ever think it would feel like this?”

“I never thought about,” David says, truthfully. “Just wanted to play here.”

“Yeah,” Willy says. “Fuck, that was a shitty fucking game.”

David says nothing; Pastrnaks don’t lie.

“I hate losing,” Willy says viciously.

“Yeah,” David says.

“Fuck.” After another long pause, Willy finally looks up, wild blond hair framing his face like a lion’s mane. “You know, you still can’t tape your stick for shit.”

Whatever else Willy might have said is lost in a rush of breath as David pushes him back against the counter.

“Shut the fuck up,” David tells him, and then they’re kissing, and nobody says anything more.

There’s a line of bruises down Willy’s side, just starting to bloom; David uncovers them centimetre by centimetre as he strips off Willy’s shirt. He presses his fingertips into the mottled yellow skin, imagining the hit that put them there, until Willy hisses and slaps his hand away.

This late in the season, they’re both a little skinnier than they should be, but Willy is still solid under David’s hands, not the scrawny thing he was when they were teenagers. Sometimes David wonders what would have happened if they’d been together back then, if it hadn’t taken them so long to figure things out. Maybe they’d be so much more solid now. Maybe they’d have driven each other mad and burned each other out long ago.

He might have put on a _tre kronor_ jersey once, but that was fantasy. They’re never going to be on the same team again.

David pushes Willy’s shirt off his shoulders and kisses him again, harder now. Willy’s still simmering mad under the surface but his body reacts to David like it always does. They’re both too tired to be fancy with it so David opens his pants, opens Willy’s, gets his hand around both of their dicks. Willy groans, pressing up against him, his arms circling David. They move together like that, letting friction and gravity do most of the work, until Willy’s fingers find David’s own bruises and press down. David gasps, throwing his head back, and Willy bites a violent kiss against David’s open mouth. He tastes blood, the familiar tang that makes him think of hockey.  

Willy laughs, a harsh, rasping sound that echoes in the quiet of the kitchen. “I wanted to check you into next week out there.”

“I know.”

“Fuck, you’re so fucking annoying to play against, fuck, Pasta.” He ends on a rising note as David twists his wrist.

“You’re not exactly fucking angel,” David says.

Willy makes a noise of protest that turns into another gasp. He’s close, David knows. It won’t take much to push him over, and then he’ll gather his clothes, and toss off some dumb, smug one liner and leave David alone with his tea and his thoughts, at least until the next time their clubs play one another. David wants him gone. He wants him to stay.

“Fuck, David, please,” Willy says, fucking up into David’s hand impatiently, setting his own rhythm. David relents and gives it to him, the last bit of friction he needs to come. Willy pants into David’s shoulder after, digging his fingers harder into David’s bruised side until David follows him over the edge, splattering his release onto the cold kitchen tile.

Afterwards, Willy pauses in the doorway, the light spilling from the hallway framing him like a halo.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Willy says, and then, “We’ll win next time.”

And then he’s gone. David watches the space where he stood for a long moment before he moves to clean up.


End file.
